Title: On Practiced Accident
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, Albus Severus/Scorpius, and unrequited Albus Severus/Draco (background canon pairings of Harry/Ginny and Draco/Astoria)
Summary: They are so violent in their silences, so vicious. They are careless in this, always meeting on practiced accident, stumbling into each other with rehearsed surprise and indifference, as if it isn't the priority of the evening to find one another and seek out all the dark parts that are mended to shadows and wrongness, to bruises and wounds, to scars and secrets.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): infidelity, voyeurism, coercion, dubious consent, use of the Imperius Curse
Epilogue compliant? Yep
Word Count: 4,500
Author's Notes: Thank you to cerberusia for the wonderful prompts and list of likes a mile into my favourites as well! One of your prompts was "the effect of a longterm affair on their wives and/or children", and I ran with that, as I am a huge fan of the next gen kids and infidelity both. I hope this walks the line between all your kinky loves and a bit of psychological turmoil. Thanks so much to my beta LS, who is the best friend an author could ever have. Her time and advice helped shape what this fic became, and I am forever grateful for her. :) Thanks finally to the mods, who have been nothing but patient with me. I adore you all, lovelies.
On Practiced Accident
The Ministry Christmas party is in full swing. The two of them, they stand at opposing ends of the ballroom, separated by as much as they can possibly fit in the space between their bodies—people, things, space. But it's unmistakable, how they are drawn to one another. Like pendulums, forever swinging away and brought back together by gravity and desire and the base need for connection in a dystopian world.
I watch them as they swing, first slowly, circling as if this is some kind of dance. They are very good at it, hiding what they mean to each other; so good that nobody notices the way their eyes catch on one another, the hungry twitch of their mouths in greeting, the subtle shift in posture, the slouching thrum of sucked in breaths and heaving heartbeats, necks alive and singing with pulses that belong to the other, pulses that scream mine and yours and here and now and please and more.
They swing closer now, missing one another by single interruptions—Mr. Malfoy, he is intercepted by his son, of all people, and Scorpius is probably talking Quidditch or begging for admittance into Mr. Malfoy's lucrative station at the Ministry. But even though Mr. Malfoy answers patiently, smiles fondly, his eyes are not meant for his son. They are meant for dark things and hidden mouthings in impatient alcoves, for spidering fingers that crawl down his spine and hard cocks and thrusting things that stab and prick and insert and claim. Mr. Malfoy is so good at acting like it doesn't matter that Harry Potter stands but a foot away—so close, in fact, that I almost see their hands brush as they pass one another, but is that a trick of the light, of my eyes, of my senses?—but if I look close enough, I can see the subtle nuances that give away his tells.
I'm good at gambling because I see these things. I know when someone is lying. I know when someone is cheating. I know when I'm being taken, when someone is trying to trick me, when there is a falsity in the moment that skews reality and bends it from my grasp. And right now, I see Mr. Malfoy, trying desperately to act like a doting, caring father, when all he really wants is to take Harry Potter and shove him face-first against the wall and pry his legs open and stuff a cock or two fingers or his tongue down his throat.
They are so violent in their silences, so vicious. And they are careless in this, always meeting on practiced accident, stumbling into each other with rehearsed surprise and indifference, as if they haven't owled to meet here, planned it, made it the priority of the evening to find one another and seek out all the dark parts of each other that are mended to shadows and wrongness, to bruises and wounds, to scars and secrets.
And it seems they have lost the first swing of the pendulum, a near miss, a close call. Mr. Malfoy is left standing with Scorpius as Harry Potter is pulled away by his family, and the change in Mr. Malfoy's posture is immediate—there is such longing in his candid glance over his son's shoulder, such sadness, such obsessive greed, like he owns his secret lover, like he has any right or reason to have someone like Harry Potter, like he is better than Harry Potter's family, like he has some claim that—
I am forced to look away. I am forced to smile. Harry Potter is an important man who commands attention, least of all from his son.
"I thought you weren't coming."
He is smiling, his hand resting at Mum's lower back like he loves her, like he cares for her, like he is the perfect husband and father that everyone else sees, that's expected of him, and it sickens me, because that same hand has been unspeakable places, done unspeakable things, and oh, Mum, if you only knew what he had done, would you be so happy to stand beside him as his equal, as his wife?
"I changed my mind," I say, and it's hard not to lash out, not to claw at his eyes for how much I hate him when I see, over his shoulder, the eyes of Mr. Malfoy, cold and desperate, locked on his figure. "You know I wouldn't miss this for the world, Dad."
He smiles, reaches out, ruffles my hair as if I'm still seven and think he's a hero. I don't. He isn't. He's a sad little breathing machine, like the rest of us, composed of lungs and heart and brain and molecules that cheat and steal and do wrong—he is just this and nothing more: human.
I wait in the loo. I did have to piss, but that's not why I remain. I take the cloak out of a small pouch under my dress robes and throw it over my body, watch myself disappear from the mirror above the sink.
And I wait.
They enter separately; first Dad, who looks nervous and sweaty and no different from a potions addict about to get his next fix as he checks the stalls and alcoves for any lingering partygoers who may be hiding in wait. But the room is empty, save for me, and I'm invisible. He is followed by Mr. Malfoy a few moments later. Mr. Malfoy doesn't look nervous, though—he looks angry.
"What's the meaning of this, Potter?"
Dad stops checking the stalls and brandishes his wand instead, points it at Mr. Malfoy's shoulder—no, just above it. The locks on the loo click into place. Mr. Malfoy shivers; I can almost see the bloody goose flesh boiling up along the back of his neck. Another swish of Dad's wand and I feel magic sealing the room, muting the outside world like we're all trapped in a big bubble together. It's funny, almost, the lengths to which they go so that nobody will disturb them, so that nobody will know, and yet I saw them clear as day in that alley outside the Ministry three Christmases ago, when it was cold and snowing and Mr. Malfoy's hands were fisted in Dad's dress robes and Dad was red in the face and they were so open about it, so vulnerably public in that stupid moment right before they kissed and my life fell apart.
"Potter," Mr. Malfoy snarls. Yeah, he's angry. Furious, maybe. Over what, I can't tell.
"My family is here tonight," Dad says. He looks angry too.
And I think, maybe, for just a second, that Dad's head will clear in this tense moment, that he will see where his priorities should lay, that he has a family, and that Mr. Malfoy isn't worth losing that. I feel it churn in my stomach, helplessly hopeful that Dad will come to his senses. But I've had this feeling before, and I've seen them after, the way they grope and cling and kiss and fuck, the way Dad says no but his body gives in, the way the world stops for them, the way they throw everything away for one another.
For sex. It's disgusting. All of this turmoil and angst, just to pulse and thrust and dirty themselves. They are willing to give away the most important things—family, friends, sanity—for rushed moments against bathroom walls or cramped in filthy alleyways. What is it worth, to them, this attraction?
I hate seeing it, hate the way Dad looks when he lets Mr. Malfoy in, but I can't find the strength to look away, either; it's like I'm locked in this pact with them somehow, and I have to see it through until the end. Wherever that takes me, I am bound to their ship that sails aimlessly through the tides.
Mr. Malfoy scoffs, folds his arms, leans against the door, sneers. "When has that ever stopped you before?"
Dad is furious. I can see it all over his face, the way his jaw gets tight and his eyes hollow out. It's the same look he gave me when I punched James in the face last Christmas for calling me a bender, the same look that crosses his face when he has a tough case at work and he brings that baggage home with him. It's frightening, but Mr. Malfoy rarely looks threatened by him, and now is no exception.
"This has to end," Dad says.
I feel proud of him, for an instant. If he can stop this madness before it reaches its fever pitch, then there is still hope for him, for our family. If he can walk away now, I can forgive him.
Mr. Malfoy's sneer stretches his pointed face to a grotesque degree. I almost can't bear to look.
"So predictable," Mr. Malfoy drawls. "Every time. No, Malfoy, we can't." His impression of Dad is spot on and awful in the tense silence, and I can see Dad twitching, holding his fists back. "It's inevitable, the way you'll bend for me."
"I'm not usually the one doing the bending, Malfoy."
There. Mr. Malfoy's face hardens a tick, like he's just been scolded. And I've seen them now, several times, and know my father is right—mostly, it's Mr. Malfoy on his knees and Mr. Malfoy's face pressed against the brick, and Mr. Malfoy's arse that's bare. But all three of us know that sometimes, too, it's my dad who lets himself be pierced by Mr. Malfoy's prick, who gets off on relinquishing control, who likes to have dirty things whispered in his ears and told how naughty and wrong and bad he is. I feel my stomach churning at the memories, seeing Mr. Malfoy biting my father's neck raw as he thrust into him, emptying himself in Dad and murmuring unspeakable things against the shell of his ear.
But there is something else, too, another emotion that swells in my chest, and it hurts and disgusts me and tempts me to their darkness. I fight to control my breathing, to control the heat that curls down to the edges of my skin and prickles in my bollocks like the first sweep of fire on a lit match.
"Not usually," Mr. Malfoy says, finally. "But, as luck might have it, tonight I am not feeling particularly bendy."
Mr. Malfoy moves. Dad can't keep his eyes off him, and neither can I. He is like silk and fire and disease and dark things that crawl through the night and under your skin. I can't help but watch, transfixed, my lips drying out, my tongue heavy. I am conscious of every little noise and sound that my body makes; every breath, swallow, twitch, shift, and crack. My bones call out to him, my blood sings his name, and I don't need to look at Dad to know we have the same eyes, the same gaped mouth, the same dulled, hollowed expression twisting our features. We never look so alike as when we are greedy for Draco Malfoy.
"Do you know what I am feeling tonight, Potter?"
His voice is fine silk, velvet on the up-stroke, rich liquor in spun glass tumblers—dangerous and deadly and sweet as sin. I lean towards him, watching the way his lips form around my surname. It's mine too, it's my name beneath those syllables: it could be me he's talking to if I wanted.
Dad is gritting his teeth now. I can hear it, the grinding of his molars and the purse of his lips, the way he stiffly swallows his spit, his dry mouth watering. "Malfoy," he warns, and I want to look, but I'm stuck on Mr. Malfoy and the way he walks, how close he can get without touching, how many buttons he can press without laying a single finger on Dad.
Mr. Malfoy is close enough now that I can see the effect it has on Dad, and I don't like how it makes me feel when Mr. Malfoy nudges my father back until he's cornered beside the sinks. Mr. Malfoy sneers so wide that it looks like his lips will split, and he slams his palm flat against the wall. It's his left arm that's raised, the faded Dark Mark glaring in its obscenity, greying on Mr. Malfoy's pale forearm, practically flaunted in front of my father.
I creep closer, breath held, and I reach down without thought to fondle myself. I wish it was his arm I could touch, that I could smear my tongue across the mark and suck the poison from his skin. I wish it was my mouth he kisses, my cock he sucks, my waist he grips. I touch myself like I know he would, and I sink to my knees as I watch, helpless and bound to things beyond my repair.
"I want to watch you break for me," Mr. Malfoy whispers, his lips dragging over my father's jaw, across stubble and strength. "I want you to break and beg."
There is only a second's hesitation as my father tries to summon the willpower to say no, to fight his urges, but he is weak, like me, weaker and pathetic and a slave to these moments, whatever they mean to him besides getting off. After that, they are kissing, inseparable, connected and intimate and touching in every place that matters. I work my hand over my stiff length and know I'm embarrassingly close already, just watching his mouth move against Dad's, the spit at the corner of his lips sounding as they shift and move and lick and suck and bite and nip.
I hate what Mr. Malfoy does—to me, to my father—but I like how it feels, the way my blood burns and my veins pulse for him. And what does that make me? Some sick, twisted pervert who gets off watching his father cheat, watching him fuck, get fucked, seeing the things they do that I don't even know how to name. I'm on my knees for him, begging in silent pleas to release me, to let me come, to give me what I need.
And when I look up, Mr. Malfoy has my father pinned against the wall, his strong arms twisted at his spine, his trousers down and robes hiked up to his waist, glasses angled on face against the wall. His arse is bare and Mr. Malfoy's thumb is inside it, twisting, thrusting.
"Going to open you up," Mr. Malfoy whispers. "Going to spread you so wide, Potter. Wide enough to slip my entire hand in. My fist, all of it. You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like that."
My eyes lock there, on my father's arse, on Mr. Malfoy's hand. I can imagine it, how it would feel to take in each of Mr. Malfoy's fingers, one at a time, until his whole fist is buried deep. I have to bite back a moan, and I know in a second, I'm going to be too loud, that I'm going to somehow give myself away. They are already lost to each other and little can tear them away, so when I move, I am soundless to them, far away from their reality, a ghost to their affections, gliding through the shadows of nothing and nowhere as I stumble to get my trousers up, to get out get out get out…
I lock the door after me. There is no use letting someone else interrupt this mess. It is mine and mine alone to bear, and I will take it in me and devour the pain if that means protecting my family from what this knowledge could do.
It would ruin them, as it has ruined me.
And I do not want to ruin my family.
It is a good enough excuse, inviting Scorpius Malfoy over. I know that with Scorpius comes Mr. Malfoy, one hand firm on his son's black-cloaked shoulder as if he really thinks he can keep Scorpius from me just by gripping him tightly enough. It is a joke, how he thinks nobody will ever find him out if he puts on this mask of indifference, the icy exterior that is hard angles and sharp bones, pale things that don't breathe. But I know him when he is on fire, when he is lit up inside and panting, red-faced and greedy, an animal to his need like all the rest and no different.
I smile. I invite them in. I say, "Dad is in the study if you'd like to speak to him before you go, Mr. Malfoy," the bait offered and trap laid, and I pull Scorpius away with a single, gentle tug and give him a grin that he thinks is ours to share alone, sweet and secretive and adoring.
He is gullible.
Upstairs in the cottage I share with my parents and sister, I show Scorpius what I asked him there to see. His eyes are beautiful when they go wide, so different from his father's, so innocently clear. His fingers touch the fabric, and I watch it ripple beneath the strokes he offers.
"An Invisibility Cloak," he murmurs, his awe beautifully tangible.
I move in close. My fingers raise, prickling goose flesh in their wake as they tickle over the back of his neck just below his soft hairline. I hear the noise he makes; I hold back a grin. This is not the first time, but Scorpius has never exactly been receptive unless I warm him up to things first. He likes slow seductions, likes to nudge me away if I go too fast, and I'm sure he's never told a soul about our first time in the dormitories of Hogwarts last year. The way his body yielded to me, the way I rode him after and thought of his father, called him Malfoy and told him to shut up when he called me Albus in turn.
Scorpius is never so beautiful as when he breaks. It's only then I feel like I've gained some ground over Mr. Malfoy and this debilitating curse he's left upon me, upon my family. We are all walking around like broken little things, plucked of our sanities because of him, but when I take this from his son, it's checkmate and fireworks and breathing out and a rush, a thrill, an electric jolt in my heart, in my prick, and someday he'll see that and I'll have won.
And how strange, to feel a little pity now, when the moment is finally at hand, to feel something like discomfort or guilty lurch in my stomach as I mouth along Scorpius' neck, up to his ear, listening to him whimper, feeling him sway, steadying him with one arm about his slender little waist. Such a frail thing, so unlike his father.
"Albus," he whispers. "Please."
Whatever I had felt before, it is replaced now with a sense of impending action, of desire, of knowing. This is the plan. I must stick to it. It is now or it is never.
My hand is surprisingly level as I reach for my wand and cast the incantation in Scorpius' ear: "Imperio."
Scorpius moves effortlessly—so pretty, like a doll. I can feel him, tied against me, bound by magic to my every whim. His eyes are dull, pupils dark and wide, and when he looks at me, he isn't really looking at all. There is nothing he can do now; nothing but watch.
I tell Scorpius, explain it quietly to him. "When we enter the study, all I want you to do is watch. Do not move, do not make a noise—just watch."
Under the Cloak, we creep together into the study, and the scene plays out just as I imagined it would. My father and Mr. Malfoy are so predictable in their deceits—they can't stand together in a room without wanting, greedily needing, ruining. They don't even hear the door, don't see the dim light rush in from the hallway; they just kiss and rut, already in various states of undress in the middle of the room, panting, red-faced, vulnerable and stupid.
There is a small sofa in the study beside the fireplace, which we occupy wordlessly. I can only imagine what Scorpius must be feeling, seeing his father like this, like some debauched whore, witnessing his infidelity, knowing that whatever love Mr. Malfoy felt for his wife is gone in these moments, lost to carnal temptations and things that can't be named in the darkness of private studies. I wonder if he thinks, like I did. I wonder if he questions his father, questions himself—is it his fault his father has become this creature writhing face-down on some man's desk? Is it his fault he wasn't good enough to keep his father from these moments? Is it all his fault, his stupid, insignificant fault?
I can only hope that my father bleeds him today, that Mr. Malfoy takes it and Scorpius is made to watch as my father splits his arse and jabs into it like a rutting mutt. Just think of what it will do to his fragile little mind, to his perfect relationships with his loving parents, to how he thinks of me and my family. If this doesn't start a war, I don't know what will.
Before us, my father spins Mr. Malfoy to face him, then shoves him to his knees, feeds his prick into Mr. Malfoy's waiting mouth, and I can't resist wondering what it would feel like to choke Mr. Malfoy with my cock, the whole of it, straight to my balls or could I stuff those in as well? His mouth is so perfectly greedy, sloppy, and how could anyone miss the flush on his cheeks, the spit on his chin, the swollen O of his lips?
I glance once to Scorpius, his wide eyes wet. I had never before questioned whether or not someone could cry of their own accord under the Imperius Curse. I wonder if by the time we're through, he'll have soiled himself too.
The scene unfolds as it usually does—they grab, they pull, they push, they growl, they bite, they moan, they writhe, they buck. I watch with breathless anticipation as Mr. Malfoy chokes on my father's prick, the length obscenely outlined in his cheek one moment and down his throat the next. Mr. Malfoy's Adam's apple bobs furiously under the onslaught, and spit squelches out the sides of his lips. My father seems to like that, the grotesque noises Mr. Malfoy makes with his mouth so full that he's choking, so he drives his hips onwards, harder, more, deeper, until his bollocks are swinging and slapping against Mr. Malfoy's chin and it's Mr. Malfoy's turn to cry. Natural tears, from the force of the gag of my father's cock, and it's now that I reach down to undo my own trousers.
I'm not sure if Scorpius can see me—I told him only to watch my father and Mr. Malfoy—but it would be impossible to say he doesn't feel the motion of my hand or catch a glimpse in his periphery as I lick my palm for some lubrication and get to work.
It is when my father finally pulls off that I'm close enough to burst. I take Scorpius' hand at the wrist, press it against my balls, make him hold like a vice just under them and cupping my cock in a tight pinch.
"Stay," I whisper, just above a silent mouthing. I feel his hand clench and still, the throb of his pulse distinctly warm on my prick. Maybe after this, he'll be of some use after all.
"Potter," Mr. Malfoy growls.
My father spins him effortlessly, pushes him face-down on the desk, nudges his thighs open until Mr. Malfoy is on his tip-toes and scrambling for purchase. "Want you," he murmurs, almost sweetly, his hands reverent on Mr. Malfoy's spine. "Need you. Want to be inside you."
"Do it then," Mr. Malfoy snarls, and when he turns to look over his shoulder, his face is twisted in pleasure and radiant need, like he would do anything for my father, anything he asks in this moment and any moments beyond.
Something twists in my stomach, and I look away. I let Scorpius watch. This show is for him tonight.
When I remove the Imperius Curse, Scorpius doesn't move. For a second, I think I've done some lasting damage, that I must not have done the spell properly, until Scorpius lunges forward, tumbles out of the Invisibility Cloak, and vomits on the carpet. I laugh, gently at first and then louder and then I can't stop and there are tears flooding my eyes and a choked disgust in my throat as I shed the Cloak too and double over to hold my aching stomach.
Scorpius says nothing, just braces himself over his own mess on the floor, shaking.
I don't look up. I don't think I can handle seeing my father and Mr. Malfoy now that we are revealed. I don't want to see what has become of them in this moment, how they look at Scorpius, at me. I fear that for once I will not see myself in my father's eyes, that if Mr. Malfoy stands too close to him, I may lift my wand and do something I will truly regret or at the very least something awful that I can't take back.
My skin prickles and itches. The room is so grey and silent, so hollow and cold.
I wonder now if it is finally over, if I can rest, if we can all be at peace. When I look up—when I see the two of them standing frustratingly close, bits of their skin touching in sweet connection even now, even after this, when I see my father's eyes and the look that is trapped there that I can't ever free myself from—I fear.